


Mint and Holmes

by Quartermaster (Kyuu333)



Category: The Letter (Visual Novel)
Genre: Alcohol, Drunkenness, Gen, Post-Game(s), golden ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-21
Updated: 2018-05-21
Packaged: 2019-05-09 18:34:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14721413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyuu333/pseuds/Quartermaster
Summary: Marianne finds a familiar face at the pub, and things seem just a little bit off.





	Mint and Holmes

“Oh _hoh_ , lookie here! If it i’n’t our good pal, _Holmes_.”

The Asian guy jumps in his seat when Marianne flops an arm over his shoulders and practically shouts this in his ear. If she hadn’t done the first action, it wouldn’t have been a surprise to watch him hit his head on the ceiling with a jolt that hard. He’s rigid, until the initial panic in his eyes dulls with recognition. Marianne raises her eyebrows high—that…was a worse reaction from him than usual. She notes this vaguely, though given the haze of alcohol clouding her mind, it’s highly possible that the thought won’t stick. Nevertheless, her voice is bright and playful when she continues, the lightheartedness meant to snap the guy out of whatever stupor he’s in.

“Fancy meetin’ you here, eh?”

It takes Holmes a few blinks, a few seconds with his mouth hanging open, before he finally gathers his wits and speaks in a way that resembles himself.

“McCollough,” is his curt greeting, accompanied by a dutiful nod befitting of an officer on duty. Then he sighs, and Marianne feels his shoulders relax with that deflate. “Should’ve known I’d run into _you_ here.”

“What’s _that_ s’posed to mean?” Marianne retorts, pulling away from him in a huff. “Don’t make me slap the shite outta you, pretty boy.” The next breath that escapes Holmes _almost_ sounds like a snicker. He half-heartedly raises one hand as a gesture of defence and appeasement. Of course, Marianne doesn’t _really_ take offence to his quip—not like she’d actually beat up a known police detective, either, even in this state. Her stern expression drops easily as she lets out a loud laugh. “How’s life goin’ for ya, Frey?”

“Not much different since the last time we’ve talked,” he answers. His gaze goes to the drink in his hand as he says this, and Marianne’s does the same. The Crawl is the only place the two of them consistently meet, and ever since the first time they’d talked, they always took a second or more for some light, friendly banter. Sometimes it’s as brief as a simple greeting—Ashton is just there for a bit of intel from G and is gone again in a flash—but other times the busybody is _actually_ there to wind down and welcomes a nice, lengthy chat.

The favourite topics between them are mostly about their mutual friends. While she loves to smack talk about most people when she’s had a few drinks, Marianne never has any ill words about that bunch. She talks about her pleasant experience working with Santos and gives praises about Steele’s photography work—he’s become her go-to guy for that kind of job. While she talks about working with them, Ashton occasionally mentions some shenanigans that they bring to him as his friends. Isabella, Rebecca, and Zach—while his personal stories about them are brief and few inbetween, it seems like the aloof detective has gradually warmed up to Marianne enough to give just a few more details each time. At this point, he doesn’t even throw any disgruntled looks at her anymore even when she’s disgustingly wasted.

There’s one thing about him that always annoys Marianne, though—even when Holmes is taking time to relax in a pub like this, he _hardly ever_ drinks more than a sip. It always feels like some kind of joke. He sits at the bar, orders an ale, and doesn’t even touch it! Waste of money; waste of a good drink. Why, whenever _Marianne_ steps foot in this place, she makes it her _mission_ to get piss drunk.

Although, this time she’s surprised to find a difference. What the detective has clenched in his hand isn’t an ale at all. The crystal glass is half-filled with an amber liquid. What’s that, _whiskey_ ?? She associates that stuff with someone like, well, _Whiskey_ , not _Holmes_. What gives? Could this kid even handle the hard stuff? (She calls him a kid even though they’re almost the same age. It’s because of the significant difference in their heights that she isn’t able to fully grasp that fact, especially not while drunk.)

“What’s that, then?” she goads, her gaze flittering from the drink to Holmes’ face and back. The detective raises an eyebrow.

“What’s _what_?”

“You gonna drink all that?”

He frowns, and his brow furrows as he stares into his drink. That’s what he’d been doing while Marianne snuck up on him earlier—just staring at it, lost in a daydream. It’s not uncommon to see him like that when he’s hanging out here, but…another one of his heavy sighs interrupts her train of thought.

“Yeah, fuck it. Might as well, huh?”

“He-bu— _what._ Really??”

He gives her an odd look. “Yeah,” he says flatly. “Why not? You’re acting weird, McCollough. Did G let you go overboard again?”

“ _No_ ,” she all but snaps. _She’s_ acting weird?! The nerve of this guy! She’s- alright, she’s had quite a bit to drink; she’ll admit that freely. But she’s definitely still sober enough to notice that she isn’t the one acting weirdly out of the two of them. Before she can say any more, however, whatever hint of concern she feels melts away when Holmes picks up his glass and raises it to her, offering a wry smile.

“Cheers, then.”

Her eyes light up. On second thought, she realises that this is something she never thought she wanted to see. In the kid’s own words: _fuck it._

“Right, cheers!”

They clink glasses, and Marianne downs the rest of her ale, all the while keeping an eye on Holmes. Her surprise only grows as she watches him shoot the whole thing in one go. The whiskey—or whatever it actually is—vanishes within seconds after a couple of gulps. It’s Marianne who bangs her empty glass onto the table first, though. _No one_ could out-chug _this_ Irishwoman. Holmes still holds his empty glass halfway in the air when Marianne lets out a burst of laughter after taking a deep breath. She gives him three pats—rough smacks, rather—on the back.

“Thataboy, Holmes!!” she hoots. From the detective’s scrunched face, it looks as if he’s about to spit his drink right back into his cup. Somehow he manages to keep it down, setting the glass back onto the table while gasping for air. His breath hitches with a faint cough—one he tries to cover up by raising his knuckle to his lips. But Marianne notices, of course. She’s seen it plenty of times. This is the reaction of someone who isn’t used to the strength of his drink. The giggles bubble up in her throat as her hearty pats turn into a comforting rub. “A few more’o those, and you’re well on your way to impressin’ some ladies. Fifty more should do it.” Ashton chokes out something of a laugh—it certainly reaches his eyes for once as he peers at her.

“Riiiight, I’ll pass on that. Indefinitely.”

“Aw,” Marianne pouts, already feeling her enthusiasm ebb. And here she thought he was just getting started. “Alright, how about we shorten it to two or three?” She looks at him expectantly, hoping that he’ll at least allow himself to go _that_ far, but his impassive expression coupled with an arched brow is quick to disappoint.

“One, I’ve gotta drive home after all this. And two, who says I’m looking to impress any ladies?”

“Blokes, then?” Marianne just has to suggest, only to receive an amused yet still unmoving look. Yeah, yeah, she’s just playing around. She’s familiar enough with him at this point to know that the true answer is ‘ _no one like that_ at the moment.’

“Tsk. What a killjoy you are,” she grumbles aloud. “And here I thought I’d be lucky enough to catch a free strip show.” She seals the tease with a wink, and the reaction is instant and satisfying. Ashton’s eyes widen and his face flushes a bright red—the color reaches as far as his ears.

“ _G!!_ ” he yells a flustered rebuke to the bartender. There’s a humourful expression on G as he turns to look at the pair—he has evidently caught at least the tail end of their conversation.

“Sorry Holmes,” he chuckles with hardly any sign of an apology in his eyes. “You’re not the only one around here who can demand dirt on someone.”

“Thaaat’s right, _Holmes_ ,” Marianne hums with a smug smirk. “You don’t get to be _special_ just ‘cause you’re a detective inspector, ey?” Ashton buries his face in his hands, letting out a low groan.

“What do I have to do to make sure you people never bring _that_ up ever again?”

“Weeeell-”

“ _Don’t._ Don’t. Answer that.”

“Ever heard of ‘no shame,’ Holmesie?” Marianne chortles, grinning at him as she leans against the counter. “I think learning it would do you some good. Don’cha think so too, G?”

“The lady has a point,” the bartender agrees with a chuckle. “Although, it’s got some youthful charm to it—the way this kid still gets embarrassed ‘bout somethin’ as trivial as that.”

“The youthful charm of a kid fresh out of primary, sure,” the woman scoffs. “How old are you again, pretty boy?” Ashton glares at them from just above his fingertips. Even with his face still mostly covered, Marianne can tell that he’s still a little red.

“Why do I even put up with you two?” he grumbles.

“I dunno, why do you?” Marianne laughs, before she abruptly drops her smile and draws a breath. She’s still quite focused on the topic at hand. “But seriously, Holmes, you’ve gotta learn to loosen up some more! It’s a mighty fine thing, bein’ drunk. It wouldn’t hurt, eh?”

“I’ll ‘learn to loosen up’ in my own time, thanks,” the sentence comes out as a mutter, like it’s more directed to himself than anyone else. But he’s back to his normal snarking tone as he gives her that same old unwavering look. “Try all you want, though; I’m not gonna strip for you no matter what you say.”

“ _Ha_!” The exclamation came out loud, along with a single jovial clap. “What’re ya, scared that I’ll come onto you? Fat chance. I told you before, pipsqueak—you’re cute and all, but I prefer blondes.” Mmm, blondes…her thoughts start to wander to some notable ones…but, no! _Focus_ , Marianne. There’s a time and place for everything, and she’s not had enough drinks yet to be slipping. “But I’m being real with ya, Frey. If you’re here to drink _that_ stuff, then you’re here to go all the way. Fuck the consequences!”

“You know you’re always welcome to crash here, kid,” the bartender also adds. “Well, so long as ya don’t cause a bloody commotion.” Holmes lets out a low chuckle, and it’s clear that he gets their intentions of good will. But still he shakes his head, waving them off.

“One’s enough for me, really,” he insists. He shrugs off his fancy parka though, after all that talk of _not_ stripping—the heat of his drink is evidently getting to him. Marianne’s staring at him expectantly with a smug grin, and it doesn’t take a minute for him to notice that look. “That’s _all_ you get,” he says with a dry smirk, plopping the jacket solidly on his lap.

“Pffffft, you coward,” the woman playfully jabs.

“Sticks and stones, lady.”

G slides another ale to Marianne, and her eyes light up. She didn’t ask for it, but the guy knows the drill by now. She’s gone here so much that he can gauge her level of drunk by just a glance. Whatever they were talking about is instantly forgotten as she happily takes a few generous gulps. G chuckles as he plucks her previous glass and stashes it behind the counter.

“Easy there, Marianne, the drink’s not goin’ anywhere.”

She can feel Ashton watching her, though when she stops for a breath and looks over, he averts his gaze. She still catches the expression on his face just before it becomes a blank slate yet again. His eyes were searching, and there was a subtle crease in his brow. Some part him still hasn’t relaxed, even after a drink and that bit of friendly small talk. It’s unusual, even for someone like him. The whole way he carries himself tonight is just…odd. His jumpiness, his choice of drink—his choice _to_ drink, for that matter—and that look in his eyes as he once again stares off into space. Tired? Hollow, even?

Even with this much drink in her, Marianne can still come up with a hunch for his behaviour. It’s the same reason why _she_ makes more time in her busy schedule these days to stop by the pub and get utterly smashed. Not enough for G to confront her about it being unhealthy, but just enough. Just enough to keep the nightmares and terrible visions at bay. For now, anyway.

And when these twisted memories arise, they only have each other to relate to.

“Heeey, Holmes,” Marianne hums, suppressing a hiccup as she once again drapes herself over the counter. When he doesn’t snap out of it, she swats at his arm. “Holmes!”

“Huh? What?” Ashton blinks at her—the recognition returns. Satisfied, Marianne folds her arms neatly back under her head.

“Tell me about that time ya schooled the pants offa that bloody git.”

The detective arches a brow. While her request is vague, that amused look he’s giving shows that he knows exactly what she’s talking about. “You mean Luke Wright, yeah?” he asks, and it’s much more of a statement than a question.

“Who else?! ‘Course I’m talkin’ about Luke _fuckin’_ Wright!”

Ashton breathes out a laugh. “McCollough, you make me tell you about _that_ one every single time. It’s not even all that interesting.”

“Shut it, pretty boy! I know what I’m about; now tell it!”

“Alright, alright,” he sighs, a ghost of a smile on his lips. Resting his chin in his palm, he recalls the case.

He’s right, actually—the story isn’t interesting. After his investigation, he was hardly even involved with the rest of the process. The only time he was face to face with Luke Wright was during the trial, when he was called on to recount his and his team’s findings for the court. That man sat at the defendant’s desk, calm and silent. And in the end, Luke had accepted his defeat with a surprising air of grace and dignity. Well, that was before he fled the country with his tail between his legs, anyway. Slippery bastard.

For some reason unknown even to herself, though, Marianne always finds herself breaking into fits of giggles in the middle, and those only devolve into louder, uglier laughter from then on. By the time Ashton’s done, she's practically howling as she slaps the counter with her open palm. The detective lets out a snort, shaking his head.

“I’m never gonna understand what’s so funny about it,” he sighs, and Marianne silently agrees as she continues to laugh uncontrollably. She’s well aware of the shift in mood though, and the smile on Holmes’ lips is a welcome sight. Just what the doctor ordered, eh?

“ _As ucht Dé_! What a total arse, that one,” she exclaims.

“Tell me about it.”

“Oh, I _will_! That bloody—” Marianne spouts out every nasty word that comes to mind. Some in English, others in Gaelic, and the rest of them entirely made up. Don’t get her wrong—she honestly doesn’t harbour all that much ill will towards Luke Wright herself. But that doesn’t mean she won’t enjoy bad-mouthing him whenever she gets a chance. It’s just so much _fun._ That, and her remarkable ability to drag out an insult gets an honest snicker out of Holmes. That’s the most she _ever_ gets out of him, but it’s enough.

It takes a few more drinks before G finally cuts her off, and at this point all her words have turned into incomprehensible whining. Her face is practically glued to the counter, and she’s forgotten where the conversation has gone. She does remember that she’s been _speaking_ , at least, most likely about nonsense. Actually, she’s still speaking right now, if muttering a string of jumbled prayers under her breath counts.

“Maybe I let her have one too many this time,” she hears G grumble.

“Mnnn, never too—” she hiccups “—too many.”

“ _Maybe_ ,” Ashton agrees. “Don’t sweat it, G. I’ll see to it that she gets home safe.”

“Don…Don’t talk about me like I’m not here, ya…” whatever name’s at the tip of her tongue degrades into a mumble. Is Holmes offering to walk her home? What does this guy think he is, a police officer?

Oh wait.

“You good to drive then, Holmes?” the bartender asks.

“Yeah, I feel pretty sober by now. Think I have the motor skills to write myself a ticket, at least.”

“A DUI’s not something to take _that_ lightly, kid. You should know that better than anyone.”

Holmes laughs. “You _know_ I'm only kidding! Sheesh, who do you take me for? I'm nothing _but_ a responsible driver. Law enforcement aside, Shirley counts on me to be.”

“Yeah, yeah. Drunk or not, if you dinged up that car of yours, you'd probably cry for a week.”

“What can I say, she's _very_ precious to me.”

Marianne’s not paying attention at this point—at the mention of girls, she's started to space out. Thinking about soft golden locks, luscious lips, fluttering lashes…she can't help it if some dirty, dirty thoughts make it out of her mouth. She can't even hear herself as she slowly slips away. Her eyelids droop, and she's lost.

 

In the dark, _she_ smiles. Beautifully she shines, like the sun herself. Marianne’s breath hitches. Instinctively she reaches out, fingertips trembling. They feel the shock of cold glass, and a shiver ripples through her entire body as _she_ transforms, corrupts, right in front of her eyes. Marianne doesn't want to watch—doesn't want to _see_ , but it's too late. Too late. The images are burned in her head.

The twisted smile.

The suffocating stench.

The children's screams.

_It's cold._

_It's so cold._

Hands like ice caress, search, close around her throat. That horrid laugh rattles in her head as she slips away, gone, _gone_ —

 

Suddenly she can breathe again, a gasp bringing fresh, scorching air into her lungs. She thrashes, a scream ripping from her throat. She's caught her, _she's caught her, she's going to_ —

“—Collough, wai— _Marianne_!!”

She freezes as the familiar voice calls her name. The hands grasping her wrists are firm enough to stop her from hurting herself. Warm. Warm and careful.

“It's just me. Hey. Look at me.”

She does as she's told, following the sound of his voice. In the darkness, she can still find him—she stares into his calm eyes. Serious yet soft, with a trace of concern. Just like back then.

Gradually her body stills, and his grip on her slackens. Her trembling hands find the hem of his sleeves and grip desperately—something to hold onto that grounds her. If he minds, he doesn't say. His gaze is unwavering, just as it needs to be.

“You okay?” He asks the question once her breaths slow and even. The firmness in his look makes way for his suppressed concern, and he allows his brow to furrow.

She still can't find her voice, but the warmth is returning to her body, thanks to his friendly presence and the comfortable cushioning she’s lying on—it only occurs to her then that she's in her condo, safe and sound. This isn't the first time Holmes has walked her home. She's kept this place even though she isn't in town all that often—it's just so convenient when she _is_ , what with the short walk to The Crawl and all. She doesn't remember the walk back here at all this time, though, nor does she remember handing Holmes her key to get in. Most likely, he broke in on his own. Typical. She supposes she should be grateful this time.

Realising that he's still waiting on her answer, she manages a weak nod. He mirrors it subtly, leaning back ever so slightly, and Marianne’s death grip on him slackens. She doesn't let go yet, still shaking off the rest of her daze.

Neither of them speak for a long time, but she can tell that they have the same topic on their minds. It's become an unspoken rule, somehow, to not mention _that_ to each other. Like it never happened. It's probably for the best—it feels like if she talks about it, the memories will return as vivid as ever. And, well, she doesn't want to risk getting _worse_ than she currently is. Not with the evident progress she's already made on her own.

No, just having someone by her that she _knows_ understands is helpful enough. Be it him or any of their mutual friends. Or Hannah. Or even _Whiskey_ , whenever that arsehole even bothers to show his face.

Though out of all of them…there's something uniquely comforting about Ashton Frey.

The reason for that is obvious— _he_ was the one who found her back then, after all. Just when she thought it was the end for her. When she was losing what was left of her mind, curled up in that cell muttering futile prayers under her breath over and over. After the initial fear of assuming he was the ghost finally shuffling near to end her suffering once and for all, the relief that washed over her would've brought a cascade of tears down her cheeks if she hadn't been so dehydrated. He was like an angel sent by the Lord himself, with an entire energy bar to boot.

Holmes was in a big rush back then, that much was clear, but still he made time to convince and reassure her—even handed over a weapon to defend herself with despite the eminent danger he'd find himself in. _Fifteen minutes_ , he'd told her. And she found herself making excuses to wait for his return—her mobile was long dead and she pretended she couldn't hear, see, or remember the existence of that clock ticking away on the wall of the kitchen. She was _almost_ too nervous to look for nourishment, her mind replaying the gruesome deaths of those teens over and over, dreading that the detective would suffer the same fate…

They hardly even knew each other back then. Hell, even now they still aren't all that close—maybe they never will be. But even so, there's a connection between them that can never be replicated.

She's more or less at ease now, all that alcohol in her blood working wonders on top of everything. The dull light filtering through her window is enough for her to make out that familiar little scar on Ashton’s palm. She lets go of him at last, allowing her body to relax against her bed. All of a sudden, she feels exhausted. Ashton pulls back, standing up straight.

“Better now?”

“Mmmhm,” Marianne hums drowsily, rubbing her tired eyes. With an audible exhale, the detective adjusts his jacket.

“Good. Get some sleep.”

She almost obeys. But in a delayed reaction, her eyes snap open. She swipes her hand out and manages to snag the tail end of Ashton’s jacket before he steps out of range. “W-wait,” she sputters, and she knows she has a desperate look on her face as their gazes meet. There’s nothing but mild surprise in the detective’s expression.

“Yeah?” he asks patiently, and Marianne finds herself hesitating for just a second. The alcohol gives her the push she needs to surpass her doubts.

“Stay.” It comes out as a hoarse whisper, but she can still hear her own voice shuddering. In the pit of her stomach, there’s an overwhelming fear. Fear of seeing that horrid face, that chilling smile the moment she closes her eyes again. She feels like a feeble child, scared about the monster under her bed. But at the same time, she doesn’t care. Because she knows these fears are anything but unfounded, and she knows that Ashton understands that well. His brow is raised, but there’s no scorn to the look like there usually is. What _is_ present in his eyes, however, is uncertainty.

“You’ll be fine. Don’t worry,” he insists, gently tugging his jacket out of her loose grip. “Just…sleep. I’ve gotta get home.”

“To what?”

Marianne finds the words tumbling out. The detective pauses. He’s already turned away, and she can’t see his face. With an effortful grunt, she tries to sit up—the best she can do is barely prop herself up on one elbow. She might not know him _too_ well, but there are a few facts about him that she’s picked up. Like how his flat is all the way across town. Far away from his beloved friends. Devoid of the comfort that came with the presence of any living thing. Same as her condo now, with her dear cat Berúthiel left with a caretaker back in Ireland. Somehow, she gets it. The two of them are in the exact same boat.

“No need to put on such a brave face,” she murmurs close to her pillow—she’d already collapsed on her arm moments ago.

“Don’t know _what_ you’re talking about,” Ashton replies, but his words sound too weary to convince anyone.

“Keep me company.” It’s too strong to be a request, and too faint to be a demand. Marianne feels herself drifting to sleep again, and she feels that fear start to well up even more inside her. But she can’t express it anymore, can’t do anything about it. She’s slipping, steadily, like one would to an inevitable death. “…Please.”

As she blacks out yet again, she thinks she hears him sigh.

It’s only a few minutes of (thankfully) dreamless sleep. She can tell, because when she fades back into consciousness, the only thing that’s changed is the disappearance of the figure at her bedside. What replaces it is the steady, rhythmic sound of footsteps pacing slowly on her hardwood floor, to and fro, a shadow passing the foot of her bed every few seconds. Holmes’s voice speaks softly, and when Marianne cranes her neck and squints she can see his face illuminated by the light of his mobile.

“…nd make sure no one touches Shirley. Yeah…thanks. Bye.”

The light is gone, and so is the pacing. He lets out another sigh—this one Marianne hears loud and clear—rolling back his parka-less shoulders. Mumbling sleepily, the Irishwoman wiggles and frees an arm from her covers. She gives the space on the bed next to her a hearty couple of pats.

“C’mere. ‘S comfy,” she yawns. Ashton turns to her and she blinks before very nearly bursting out into fits of uncontrolled laughter. It’s clear from his scrunched expression that he knows (and she remembers just now, as well) that she’s had a whole lot of sex with various strangers on this very bed. She doesn’t recall if she’d told him before but when she’s drunk, _anything_ can come out of her unfiltered mouth. While she holds back the loud, obnoxious laugh, a snort escapes her followed by soft giggles, sounding more like rapid hiccups than anything.

“Uh yeah, thanks, but—” Ashton strides over toward the desk as he speaks and pauses to let out an airy grunt, plopping down on Marianne’s desk chair where his jacket’s already hanging. He gives her a wry grin. “—this works just fine for me.”

“Suit yourself,” the Irishwoman huffs, letting her her head fall back against the pillow to rest her sore neck. She honestly feels bad that she doesn’t have a nicer piece of furniture for him to settle on but, well, she can attest to the comfiness of that chair. She’s dozed off there many times herself in the middle of brainstorming for a job. With another yawn, she sluggishly rolls over and snuggles into her blanket, taking the whole bed to herself.

“Take care, Holmes,” she murmurs. Those words just fall out without much thought—she’s too sleepy to come up with anything else to say, but something tells her that when she opens her eyes in the morning, her companion will be long gone. And while expressing herself is so difficult to begin with, she can only hope that her overwhelming sincerity and gratitude is expressed, if only a little, in that simple phrase. She breathes out, slowly. “G’night.”

“…Night,” he softly replies.

The dreams are pleasant, just this once.

**Author's Note:**

> I found this nearly-finished fic buried in my docs and decided to finally get it done and posted. It's been a while since I played the VN so I hope the characterizations are still okay haha. The interactions between these two was something I wished there was more of! I just loved their unique bond. I tried to keep the endgame pairings ambiguous but I think it ended up sounding like the all-friendship ending for Ash? Honestly, while the romance endgames for him are also good and cute, the former might be my fave. :)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
